


At World's End

by boyphobic



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drama & Romance, Fear of Death, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:08:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22427602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boyphobic/pseuds/boyphobic
Summary: Blood rushes to his head. Hammerlock can see nothing, nothing at all - nothing except the swaying silver metal of the pistol held firmly in Aurelia's hands. Wainwright cocks his shotgun, raises it in his arms, and aims down the sights.No, no, no. Hammerlock cannot let this happen.His lover or his sister; who will he allow to die? Who is more important? Who will make this sacrifice?Hammerlock wants to sink into the floorboards and let the world end without him.
Relationships: Sir Hammerlock/Wainwright Jakobs
Comments: 11
Kudos: 68





	At World's End

**Author's Note:**

> this is a retelling of the scene in the main blds 3 campaign where you (spoiler) kill aurelia. lol good riddance!  
> hammerlock and wainwright are so profoundly in love that it makes my heart hurt.  
> like this is some real soul mate hours shit. ouch.

Alistair Hammerlock does not get angry. He does not get upset. He does not show fear. He keeps it all locked together, tightened within his fist, prim, poised, perfect.

That’s just the way it is, the way he’s taught himself to be - not a hair out of place, not a terse word spoken, not one single bullet released from its chamber.

Hammerlock has seen too much death during his time on Pandora and Eden-6, enough to last a lifetime and onto the next. Giving in to the sorrow, the pain, the guilt is more than he can bear. To become detached from it all and keep up an image of a scholarly, non-threatening scientist is the least he can do to maintain his sanity.

There have only been a few times where the forgotten waves of rage and despair drown him in it, few enough where he can count them on one hand. Despite the careful, meticulous training he’s put himself through, and despite the impenetrable brick walls he locked his emotions within, Hammerlock is still human.

He still remembers the cocktail of fear, hysteria, and pain that clawed behind his eyes when his arm was ripped from its socket. He remembers the heavy, empty weight of Roland’s death suffocating his lungs from the inside out. He remembers the profound sensation of anguish that choked him when receiving word that another lover had been murdered, another leader imprisoned, another desperate uprising struck down.

The world bears down on Hammerlock so hard that sometimes he thinks that he’ll be crushed to death underneath the weight of it all. But he’s learned to take it. To endure. To gingerly tuck his bloody handkerchief back into his pocket, readjust his hat, and wipe the viscera from his glasses without so much as a blink of an eye.

He can take it, he tells himself to believe. He can take whatever this soulless, cruel world throws at him, whatever challenge threatens to rend him asunder. Hammerlock does not stand down.

Hammerlock stares at Aurelia from across the decaying veranda, steeling himself for another fight with the sister that had become a monster of greed and misfortune. It is shock-still between the four people in the room, and Hammerlock grows anxious. Aurelia hasn’t yet plunged a knife into his chest, so what is she waiting for? Is she here to offer a deal, yet another contract to sign off on?

Aurelia points a gun at Wainwright.

At Wainwright.

Of course. Naturally. There could be no other outcome.

The silver-gilded edge of the barrel gleams in the sparse skylight filtering in from the rotten, crumbling dome above them. Aurelia does not stand down.

Hammerlock is jolted to attention, a rush of adrenaline and fear sweeping down his body in a thick, oppressive haze. His eyes are locked onto the muzzle of the pistol before him, and he wants so badly to glance over at Wainwright, to catch his eye, to be soothed that everything was going to be alright.

He panics.

“Aurelia, as your brother, I implore you to stop this!“ Hammerlock states, voice still smooth as silk, struggling to mask the tinge of terror and anxiety in his tone. His hands start trembling, ever so slightly, not enough so that Aurelia notices.

Aurelia takes a step forward, waving the gun as it sits lightly between her thumb and forefinger. She brandishes the pistol in her hand as if it were a glass of champagne, light and airy, insignificant, almost an after-thought as it dangles in her grasp.

She smiles at her brother from across the room. Immediately, the sight makes Hammerlock recoil; that grin, it’s all teeth and snarl and grimace. There’s no love behind those eyes.

Aurelia's predatory eyes dart down at Hammerlock’s feet as he inches away, the shark-toothed grin reaching the corners of her cheeks. “Step aside, Alistair… while I trim the last loose end of the Jakobs line!”

Her lips wrap around words that tumble out of her mouth, but Hammerlock can’t hear her anymore. He can’t even understand, can’t even process her commands to move away. He can only focus on her outstretched shoulder, and how the shining silver skull ornament affixed to her coat stares back at him with empty, black eyes.

Wait, step aside? From Wainwright? Did he hear that correctly?

Step aside from Wainwright Jakobs, his fiance, his partner, the love of his life? That would be madness. Almost unthinkable. A scenario found only in the most harrowing of ECHOnet shows, an act straight out of some Athenian tragedy. Every last nerve in Hammerlock’s body is on fire, from his shaking feet to his curled knuckles.

What kind of man does Aurelia think he is? How dare she threaten Wainwright, how _dare_ she try to rip away the last thing he holds most dear on this forgotten, buried graveyard of a planet.

They may come from the same blood but when Hammerlock looks at his sister, all he sees is a stranger before him.

Something inside Hammerlock cracks, splinters. He wants to lunge forward, dig his thumbs into Aurelia’s neck, feel the bones in her trachea snap one by one. He wants to rip open her rib cage and find the empty, decrepit space where her heart used to be.

But he does none of those things.

Hammerlock steps in front of Wainwright without a moment of hesitation. It’s a given, sheer muscle memory; immediate, unthinking, inconsequential. He would be a fool not to. He hears Wainwright shuffle back towards the balcony door, his fingers grazing over the old, scratched-up metal of his shotgun.

Hammerlock steadies himself on his feet, praying that the blood rushing to his head doesn’t cause him to lose consciousness. He slips back into the headspace of the orderly, professional scientist he holds himself up to be. One that is neat, one that is calm, one that is polite.

He takes a deep breath, feeling his seizing lungs expand with air. A bead of sweat edges onto his brow, caught by the rim of his broad-banded hat. Hammerlock feels Wainwright’s short breaths against his neck. He backs the two of them up against the heavy oak doors, and as he glances behind his shoulder, he realizes that there’s no escape.

His mind frantically flips through several scripts he could use to address his sister, dredging up every neutral phrase and negotiating manner he can muster. He prepares a speech on the tip of his tongue, practically reciting what would be said to any other bandit or hostage-taker the next planet over.

“If you want to kill Wainwright, then you will have-”

Aurelia pulls the trigger. Doesn’t even give it a second thought.

Hammerlock doesn’t even feel the bullet collide with his abdomen, piercing through fat and muscle and tissue before exiting out of his back. He feels numb, senseless, dulled. He prides himself on hunting and researching thousands of monsters across the galaxy, and as the blood spills thickly across his stomach and soaks through his vest, Hammerlock knows that he’s staring at one.

He’s staring at something that doesn’t even deserve the title of being human.

Clumsily, he manages to grasp onto his chest, panting through gritted teeth as the searing pain and burn of the bullet catch up to him. He stumbles backward as he takes the force of the blow, slamming up against the back door as Wainwright throws his arm around him.

His eyes are slammed shut hard, hard enough to hurt, and he feels a frigid burst of air envelope the two of them. Hammerlock struggles to gasp down air as he and Wainwright are engulfed in a sheet of ice, encapsulating their bodies in thick, numbing frost.

Hammerlock starts breathing hard, his body hyperventilating to compensate for the gunshot wound in his chest, sickly warm blood trickling in rivulets down his fingertips. Before the two of them are encased completely, Hammerlock uses what little of his strength that he has left to agonizingly turn his head to the side, just enough so Wainwright can see him.

Wainwright catches his eye, and Hammerlock can see the pain, helplessness, and fury in his expression. His brows are locked in a deep, heavy sort of sorrow, his lips downturned, the creases under his eyes dark and sallow. Hammerlock is so taken aback, he pauses. Wainwright looks so weathered, so old. He looks ancient.

The ice begins to cling and crystallize to the bare skin of Hammerlock’s neck, forming a frozen cage that bites harshly at his lungs. He winces in pain, closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, Wainwright is gone.

Everything is gone. The ice is so thick that the rest of the world around them starts to darken.

Hammerlock strains to try and see past the wall of crystal, but all he can see is the distorted, immobile form of Wainwright staring back at him. Panic sets in, and the shock of the bullet and the entombment of ice is causing Hammerlock’s heart to pound against his ribcage, heavy, loud, disorientating.

This tomb, this coffin - is this their last goodbye? Will Hammerlock and Wainwright be buried here, side by side, locked in a permanent, unending state, frozen in time?

Hammerlock can’t discern anything happening outside of this coffin of ice, except for the continuous bursts and pings of bullets cracking through mottled wood and splintered floorboards. They sound like minuscule blocks of ice clinking against the glass of a tumbler, muffled and distant, so, so distant.

His breathing shallows as the frost settles on his skin, and Hammerlock feels the goosebumps start to rise on his arms. The cold is sharp, piercing, and gnaws at him all the way down to the bone. If he were to die here and now, what world will he leave behind? What gifts did he ever give to the universe? Will anyone even remember him?

Hammerlock is a fool for ever believing that one day Aurelia might come back to him. That one day, she would discard the money and the jewels and the feather boas and realize that every day on Eden-6 is precious, and every family member is irreplaceable. He wishes, above all, that he knew why she was so cruel, why her heart turned to stone. Maybe then he could’ve stopped it.

But it’s too late now, far too late.

This is how the world ends. Not with a crash, not with a bang, but with two lovers slowly fading away into the darkness of the night, quietly buried within their sepulcher of ice and bullets. Hammerlock exhales solemnly, his breath misting in front of his nose and clinging to his hair.

It won’t be long now. The ice will devour them both, press up against Hammerlock’s throat, and suffocate him. The Vault Hunter will fall to Aurelia’s gun, and in the blink of an eye, their last hope for survival will be extinguished. When Aurelia dusts her coat off and strolls out of the room, she will leave a graveyard behind her.

Hammerlock, Wainwright, Vault Hunter - their bodies will rot, molt over, and be forgotten, just like all the other old relics lying cracked and broken in the Jakob’s cellar. There will be no statues to them, no gilded paintings hung on walls for so long that their names become enshrined in legend. There will be no mythology surrounding them, there will be no heroic battle or undertaking that they died valiantly for; they will become skeletons laced with cobwebs, nothing more.

A tear rolls down Hammerlock’s cheek, tracing the soft edge of his trembling lips. He didn’t even know he was crying.

Then, the ice gives way, just a fraction. Startled, Hammerlock blinks back tears and eyes the spot incredulously. It starts to fracture like broken glass, bit by bit, a fissure that expands a few inches until water begins to drip down Hammerlock’s leg. The translucent blue frost that shrouds his vision starts to fade away, giving him a clearer view of the scene in front of him.

There’s so much thick smoke and gunpowder hanging heavily in the air that Hammerlock could cut it with a knife, but he swears he can only see the figure of one person left standing. He squints his eyes, trying to discern the outline of a long overcoat, a short wave of white hair, anything that might indicate that Aurelia had prevailed over the Crimson Raiders at long last.

Hammerlock doesn’t see any of those things. Is- is his sister dead?

Suddenly, a sharp, piercing crack fills the air, and the ice wall around him explodes. Hammerlock instinctively crouches and shields his eyes as shards of ice bounce off his shoulders and back. The static in his ears is buzzing as he takes a hesitant step forward, expecting his boots to meet resistance from the frost encasing them, but there is none.

When he opens his eyes, pieces of crystal flutter down from the ceiling like snow, coating the wooden floor beneath his feet in a fine dusting of white frost. It would almost be beautiful, if not for the deep, red puddle of blood slowly seeping into the ice.

Hammerlock forces himself to raise his stare, struggling not to avert his eyes. When he lifts his chin up, Aurelia lies dead on the ground before him.

The Vault Hunter stands motionlessly beside her body, a great beam of light from overhead illuminating her fixed, cold gaze. Hammerlock’s head falls.

From where he is standing from across the room, she almost looks like an angel. Almost. A thin stream of blood starts to trickle out of her nose, and Hammerlock wishes she didn’t have to meet her end here, in this dusty mausoleum of boarded-up windows and rotting furniture, in a permanent state of decay.

He wishes it didn’t have to come to this.

“Alistair, Alistair, are you alright?” Wainwright gasps, launching himself at Hammerlock and wrapping his shaking arms around him. Hammerlock sinks into his chest, feeling Wainwright’s ice-cold fingers dig deep into the material of his vest, bunching it up between his fingers and refusing to let go.

Wainwright’s heart is pounding against Hammerlock’s frost-bitten rib cage, and he welcomes the warmth - the knowledge that he is alive, that _they_ are alive, is more precious than Hammerlock can even describe.

Hammerlock pulls Wainwright in closer, his hands gingerly sliding up the back of his head, fingers resting in his hair. He can feel the tips of Wainwright’s reddened ears against his cheek, shuddering as ice drips down his neck and into his jacket.

They cling to each other for dear life, as if they’re terrified that if one of them let go, this would be the last time they’d ever hold each other in their arms again. Hammerlock dips his head forward and burrows his forehead into the soft leather of Wainwright’s coat. By God, he never wants to let him out of his sight.

“What about you? You were shot just as much as I was,” Hammerlock asks, feigning a casual, lighthearted tone but failing miserably. He is so overwhelmed by love and gratitude that his voice drips with it, barely masking the primal fear and anxiety he couldn’t help but feel.

Wainwright tenses in his arms, chest pressing up against Hammerlock’s. Wainwright sighs, his hands tightening around the small of Hammerlock's back as if the question suddenly frightened him. Nonetheless, he manages to let a small chuckle escape from his lips.

“Oh, I’ll be fine. Not the first time I’ve had lead in my belly! Just have to clench,” Wainwright replies, his unmistakably twangy Southern drawl comforting Hammerlock in ways words couldn’t.

Hammerlock cracks open an eye and peers down at his abdomen, expecting there to be a crimson pool of blood staining his clothes. He furrows his eyebrows when he discovers that the gunshot wound looks largely contained; the icy crypt they were encased within must’ve stopped them from bleeding to death.

Oh, Aurelia.

The Vault Hunter a few yards away from them coughs, and Wainwright and Hammerlock reluctantly part, untangling their arms from each other but still standing close enough so that their fingers remain intertwined.

The adrenaline spike left in his body starts to wane, draining Hammerlock of his pent-up energy and leaving him feeling exhausted. If Wainwright’s hand wasn’t latched onto his hip and supporting his torso at that moment, he was sure he'd fallen to his knees. Hammerlock wants nothing more than to sink into the floorboards, to have his entire body weight held by the remnants of the Jakob’s crumbling mansion.

His body wants so badly to shut down but he won’t allow it; Wainwright would fret over him for the next millennia until the stars burn out and the sun dies. He’s been shot countless times before, and that sordid ordeal is bound to happen again as long as he remains part of the Crimson Raiders.

Hell, as long as the sun rises in the east and Hammerlock is alive to see it, he’ll end out his days with a thousand more bullets piercing his flesh. This galaxy isn’t too keen on seeing its inhabitants live their lives in peace. Hammerlock doesn’t remember if there was ever a time where Pandora and Eden-6 had been peaceful.

But something about knowing that the bullet fragments buried deep beneath his ribcage had come from the barrel of Aurelia, his own sister’s, gun makes the pain burn more than it already does.

The Vault Hunter steps over Aurelia’s body and over to the two of them, inspecting their own body for any untreated wounds or bullet holes. Hammerlock peers past their shoulder back at Aurelia, who’s lifeless body lies prone on the splintered, bloody floor.

As he stares, ice crystals bloom like vines across her skin, snaking up her arms and spreading across her chest. The tears in Hammerlock’s eyes begin to well up as the frost solidifies across her form, marking the angular curve of her shoulders and hips as at last, nothing left can be seen of her.

Her own tomb, her own coffin of ice crackles as it hardens, and then, shatters like a damaged mirror. A plume of snow rises from the floor and swirls in the air, aloft by the draft of wind flowing down from the ceiling. When it finally clears, whatever was left of Aurelia Hammerlock is gone, taken away by the cold.

Hammerlock bends at the waist, struggling to keep his composure. His sister has vanished from the world without so much as a goodbye. There will be no redemption. There will be no repentance. This is just an end. Hammerlock will never be able to forgive his sister.

But as evil, malicious, and manipulative as she was, she did not deserve to be erased. No one, not even Aurelia, deserves such a sorrowful fate.

She will continue to live on in his memory. That’s the least he can do, as much as he can strive to achieve. It is all he can do. This world might remember her as a vicious tyrant, but Aurelia will always be Hammerlock’s sister.

“Thank you, Vault Hunter. For giving her every chance and… for humoring a blinded fool of a brother,” Hammerlock breathes out, nursing the wound in his side and then resting his hands wearily on his knees.

“You’re both looking a bit worse for wear,” the Vault Hunter states, eyeing their injuries with a concerned expression.

Hammerlock takes a breath. “We will survive the trip back to the lodge, don’t worry about us. Go. The Vault will open without us.”

Hammerlock and Wainwright step aside as the Vault Hunter crosses their paths, pushing open the heavy wooden door to the veranda with a hard shove. Before they disappear out of sight, they look at the two of them in the eyes and nod, slow and courteous. A sign of condolences, no doubt. A mournful recognition that the Vault Hunter has all but destroyed what was left of Hammerlock’s already-dwindling family tree.

It had to be done. There was no other option. There will always be another planet to save, another treasure to be found, and another villain to be killed. The villain in this story, however, just happened to be related by blood.

The Vault Hunter rushes down the corridor and turns deeper into the labyrinth of the mansion, leaving Hammerlock and Wainwright exhausted, in pain, and alone. It doesn’t make for quite a heroic story, he’ll admit.

Hammerlock pushes himself back up and straightens his back, taking out a handkerchief and delicately wiping the fractals of ice and drops of blood from his glasses. He tucks the soiled fabric back into his pocket square, readjusts his hat with a shaking hand, and bites his trembling lip to conceal his despair.

Wainwright steps forward and puts a hand on Hammerlock’s shoulder, grounding him. “It’s time to go home, Al.”

Hammerlock sniffles and nods in agreement. He lets Wainwright take hold of his hand, threading their fingers together. He feels warm and solid against Hammerlock as the two of them gingerly walk over patches of ice and cracked hardwood, guiding themselves over to the Fast Travel station in the corner of the mansion.

Wainwright raises a hand and inputs the coordinates for Knotty Peak into the machine’s navigation system. The travel station confirms the location and begins to dematerialize the two of them. Hammerlock has never been able to truly describe how it feels when he fast travels; to be broken down and put back together would be the closest example he could imagine.

As he feels the cells in his body electrify and start to morph, he holds on to Wainwright’s hand even tighter. It’s as if every facet of his body is being deconstructed and sent into light speed, hurtling through space a thousand times faster than any spaceship. He feels his mind and body warping, the rush of information and codes flying past his head.

Then, as quickly as it started, it stops. Hammerlock’s feet come to rest under the familiar floorboards of the lodge, and as he glances over, Wainwright’s form starts to recrystallize in front of him. A warm smile spreads across his face. Hammerlock looks down, and when he does, he sees that their hands are still pressed together.

It’s dark out by now, the two of them gone for so long that the sun has already set and the stars have made their presence known in the inky-black midnight sky. The millions of tiny, insignificant bursts of light twinkle and flash through the large bay windows of Knotty Peak.

Most of the lodge’s local inhabitants are long gone by now, some going home, some lying down to rest, others drowning themselves in the bottom of a beer bottle. The quietness and peace of it all sends a wave of comfort down Hammerlock’s spine, a sense of reassurance that he didn’t know was missing.

Back in a familiar setting, Hammerlock gazes at the crackling wood fireplace in the mantle, bright orange embers sparking and shooting up into the air. Two tall armchairs, leaden heavily with old books, rest before it. The expansive chandelier overhead illuminates the ancient woolen rug underneath in a golden hue of light.

Hammerlock feels like he can breathe again. He’s back home, back with his love. He’s safe. Aurelia can’t hurt him anymore.

“Let’s go to bed, hm? I’m bone-tired, I tell you. I’m gettin’ too old for this,” Wainwright mumbles, briefly letting go of Hammerlock’s hand to shuffle over to the medicine cabinet beside the armchairs.

He grumbles to himself as he grabs onto the cabinet’s knobs and pries it open, pushing old tinctures and expired tablets to the side. He plucks a roll of bandages off the shelves, alongside some antibiotic cream and a few Insta-Health syringes. Wainwright holds the medicine in his hands and gestures over to their bedroom.

Hammerlock leads them down the hallway in the corner, retracing his steps as he’s done a thousand times before. Their shared master bedroom lies silent at the end of the corridor, Hammerlock’s untouched cup of tea still sitting on the bedside table.

The two of them enter the room, Wainwright turning his back and placing the bandages and other materials on top of the wooden dresser against the wall. Hammerlock undresses quietly in the dim light of the table lamp, the small bulb illuminating only a fraction of the room.

Wainwright must’ve forgotten to turn off the lamp before they left, he thinks. They were in such a hurry after hearing that the Vault Hunter was off to confront Aurelia that they took their guns, ammo, wedding rings, and little else.

Hammerlock’s clumsy fingers can only just manage to unzip the top layer of his vest, wincing the whole way as he tries to slip his arms out of the jacket without placing strain on the bullet hole in his side. Wainwright glances at him and rushes over when he notices Hammerlock’s pain. Gingerly, Wainwright threads his fingers into the collar of the jacket, slipping it down every few inches as Hammerlock removes himself from the clothing.

“Thank you, Winny,” Hammerlock whispers as Wainwright tosses the bloody vest into the corner.

Wainwright nods and returns to unwrapping the bandages on the dresser, inspecting it for any signs of damage or usage. After he’s satisfied that they won’t catch plague from the wrappings, he turns to Hammerlock. “Alright, take a seat on the bed for me,” he states.

Hammerlock shuffles over to their bed, carefully lowering himself down onto the duvet so that he doesn’t stretch the wound. Wainwright settles in front of him, bending down on one knee to get a better glimpse of Hammerlock’s bullet hole.

“Ah, this reminds me of when you proposed,” Hammerlock cheekily says, smiling when Wainwright rolls his eyes.

“Oh, shut it before I wrap you up like a mummy,” he pouts.

Hammerlock does as he’s told and sits as still as he can muster, not daring to move a single muscle. Wainwright starts by gingerly coating the bandages in the ointment, then pressing some cream to Hammerlock’s side as softly as he can. Hammerlock twitches and lets out a low whistle, trying not to curse out at the painful pressure.

Then, Wainwright rolls the bandages around his waist, starting at his right hip and pulling it across his wound. Hammerlock can’t help but wince in pain and suck in a breath through his teeth. Wainwright grimaces in sympathy and tightens the bandages, fastening them at the end with a small knot.

“There. All better?” Wainwright asks, rubbing a hand down Hammerlock’s thigh to soothe him.

He ponders for a moment. “I think a kiss will make it better,” Hammerlock complains.

Wainwright scoffs and gets back on his feet, leaning over and pressing his lips against Hammerlock’s. His mouth is so soft, so warm, so comforting, that Hammerlock feels like he’ll melt with the touch. He had missed this, this small moment of intimacy, all day. It seemed he could never get enough of it, never grow old of Wainwright’s gentle affection.

Abruptly, their kiss stops when Wainwright jumps back in pain. Hammerlock’s hand had mistakenly rested on his partner’s bullet wound, and the look on Wainwright’s face is searing.

He jumps up despite the protest in his side, fretting over Wainwright and propping up his shoulders. “Oh dear - I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to. Please, tell me you’re alright.”

His eyebrows furrow with worry as Wainwright hobbles backward, clearly contorting in agony even though he tries to mask it with a grin. “Just, just hand me a syringe beside you. I’ll deal with it.”

Hammerlock hurriedly grabs the health syringe and passes it into Wainwright’s palm, watching with bated breath as he pauses for a moment before slamming the needle into his side and pushing the plunger. Immediately, the rosy color of his cheeks darken, and his eyes flutter closed.

“Thank you. I’ll be alright, Al. Don’t worry about me.”

Hammerlock watches as the white light from the table lamp spreads across Wainwright’s face. He studies his lover with a frightened look, trying to gauge if he’s bluffing just to keep Hammerlock calm.

Then, Hammerlock takes an unsteady step forward, buries his head into Wainwright’s broad shoulders, twists the material of his gunpowder-stained jacket into his fists, and sobs.

He sobs uncontrollably.

He feels like he was an inch away from falling off the face of the goddamn earth with nothing more to show than a bullet in his chest and his soul mate turned to ice. Hammerlock shakes and shakes against Wainwright’s chest until his lungs gasp for air.

He feels like all the years of empty sorrow, all the days and soulless nights of loneliness and isolation and _pain_ seem to dredge themselves up out of the well of Hammerlock’s heart and force the tears out of him.

He’s not scared of a lot of things. Many things, to be honest, are part of Pandorian life; a planet rife with inhospitable, volatile, toxic things are nothing more than a nuisance to Hammerlock. He’s never feared an odd bullymong, or bandit, or even Crawmerax. Well, maybe a little.

But Hammerlock doesn’t have many people close to his heart, and even less people hold the same sentiment for him. The fear, the nightmare of even potentially losing Wainwright has been too much to bear.

“What’s wrong Alistair, what’s wrong? Tell me,” Wainwright soothes, holding Hammerlock’s head so gently between his palms as the two look into each other’s eyes.

“Winny I can’t, I can’t,” Hammerlock hiccups, his grief becoming thick and choking in the back of his throat.

“Come on, c’mon now. I’m right here, sweetheart. We’re safe. It’s just the two of us. I need you to breathe,” Wainwright whispers as he tucks a messy lock of hair behind Hammerlock’s ear, smoothing his hand up and down Hammerlock’s shoulder.

Hammerlock clutches onto Wainwright for dear life, tucking himself in as close as humanly possible into the crook of his neck. Hammerlock closes his eyes and wraps his arms around his lover’s waist like a vice, taking in a few shuddering gasps as he wills his heartbeat to slow down enough so that he can respond.

Hammerlock can feel Wainwright’s languid pulse against his lips, the whiskers of his scratchy gray beard rubbing up against his cheek. He smells like tobacco and faintly of cinnamon, a sweet concoction that Hammerlock fills his lungs with. He lets himself be cradled by Wainwright, letting the muscles in his arms and chest relax.

“The thought,” he begins, words slow and deliberate, “that I put you in such grave danger, that _I_ could’ve gotten you killed because of my own foolish bravado-” Hammerlock hiccups again, fingers twisting in the soft fabric of Wainwright’s thin cotton shirt.

“Honey, no offense, but _I_ was the one about to put a shotgun round right through your sister,” Wainwright chuckles, and Hammerlock can feel it deep in his chest as it bounces along his ribcage.

Hammerlock shifts again and tries to protest, opening his mouth to scold his partner, but Wainwright shushes him before he has the chance. He leans back on the bedspread, propping the two of them up on the soft pillows against the headboard.

Wainwright places Hammerlock’s head against his chest and rubs his back as Hammerlock curls up beside him, a few tears still sliding down his cheeks and onto his shirt. His head moves gently up and down with Wainwright’s shallow breaths, his lover leaning forward and kissing the top of his head.

“I’ll always be right here, Alistair. Right here. Nothing in this swampy hell-hole of a planet can take me away from you. Now you remember that, okay?” Wainwright presses another kiss to Hammerlock’s forehead.

“Bless you Wainwright. Bless you. You are a good man,” Hammerlock mumbles, throwing his arm across Wainwright’s chest and holding him close.

Wainwright stretches over to the bedside table and turns off the lamp with a faint click, enveloping the two of them in total darkness at last. A cool summer breeze creeps in from underneath the bottom of a cracked-open window, the steady hum of cicadas resounding quietly in Hammerlock’s ears.

He closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. And he falls asleep, protected and content with his lover by his side.


End file.
